


Simple Gifts

by thelightofmorning



Series: Gift Fics [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Gift Fic, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Farkas and Vilkas collect some mead from Honningbrew.
Series: Gift Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179593
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31





	Simple Gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OpalBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalBee/gifts).



> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. Dedicated to opal-bee, who’s been an amazing friend over the past few months, and to our favourite Hero-Twins Farkas and Vilkas. The lyrics mentioned in this song come from an old Shaker hymn called (appropriately enough) ‘Simple Gifts’.

_“Skjor says I have the strength of Ysgramor, and my brother has his smarts.”_

Vilkas looked over his shoulder as Farkas spoke to the newest whelp. As always, his brother towered over the new arrival, rivalling the ancient Atmorani in strength and build. He was near as tall, but much leaner. ‘Thick and Thin’, Torvar liked to call them when drunk.

Skjor, for all his seniority in the Companions, could be a dick. He wasn’t sure if it was years as a mercenary, the beast blood or the man’s own innate nature that made it so, but Vilkas fumed whenever he and Aela made fun of Farkas. Sure, Farkas wasn’t the smartest in the Circle, but he had true heart and great honour. Vilkas wouldn’t be surprised if he were to be made Harbinger, though Kodlak considered him too kind.

_And my temper runs too hot,_ Vilkas brooded as the whelp waved farewell and vanished into Jorrvaskr. The beast blood only kindled a temper already too quick in Kodlak’s eyes; resisting the moon and Hircine’s call rubbed him raw. The whelp, a cocky little runt whose saving grace was their raw talent, had already taken to responding to his admonishments with sarcasm. Better Farkas have the training of them now. One Uthgerd was enough.

Farkas joined him under the porch. “Did ya hear? Kodlak’s got ‘em on their Proving and I’m to accompany them.”

_“What?”_ Vilkas yelped. “They’ve been here barely two weeks!”

“An’ they’re already the equal of Torvar,” Farkas pointed out. “But… I think Kodlak’s seen somethin’ about them. That’s why they’re goin’ on their Proving.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Vilkas grumbled. “Has the old man lost his mind?”

“Dunno.” Farkas shrugged his massive shoulders. “Wanna go to Honningbrew? Torvar’s drunk us dry an’ Tilma can’t carry the kegs, not even in a handcart.”

Vilkas nodded. “Let’s.”

It was a beautiful day, white clouds blown across the sky like dandelion fluff on a child’s breath, and Vilkas inhaled the scent of fresh soil, green things and mountain flowers. Jorrvaskr was becoming too closed-in, reeking of sweat and stale mead. Maybe he should go to Morrowind and hunt a few creatures, get out of Skyrim and its pointless civil war for a while.

One of the farmhands was singing. “'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free, ‘tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…”

“Been stuck in Jorrvaskr too long,” Farkas rumbled. “Skin feelin’ too tight?”

“Aye,” Vilkas admitted unhappily. “I know why it must be so, but…”

“It’ll be made right again,” Farkas assured him. “Reckon the new whelp’ll have a hand in it. Feel it in my bones.”

Vilkas said nothing. His brother was an eternal optimist.

The pickup of the mead didn’t take too long, four medium-sized kegs to last them a half-month. Honningbrew mead wasn’t as good as Black-Briar, but it was local, cheaper and more readily available. Vilkas didn’t just keep the records of the Companions now Kodlak couldn’t, he also kept the books, and every septim needed to be stretched thanks to stupid men fighting for a dead god.

Farkas handed him a bottle. “Wanna sit by the river for a bit? Been a while since we did that.”

Vilkas eyed the mead kegs. “What about these?”

“Folks can wait for their mead a bit. Maybe Torvar will sober up.”

When Farkas pulled out a string of braided cord with a hook attached, Vilkas realised the mead was just an excuse. They caught several salmon, enough to feed the hungry bellies of Jorrvaskr, and shared enough mead to make the afternoon sunlight that little bit warmer and golden.

For an entire afternoon, Vilkas hadn’t thought about Jorrvaskr, the beast blood or even that bloody up-jumped whelp.

“Feel better?” Farkas asked as they took the mead and salmon back to Jorrvaskr.

“I do. Thank you.”

“Sometimes the best gift is the simplest one.” Farkas smiled crookedly. “Like me.”

“You aren’t simple!” snapped Vilkas. “Anyone who says otherwise-“

“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ simple. I ain’t stupid, but I don’t get worked up over stuff. It works out or it won’t.” Farkas patted his shoulder. “Just like with the new whelp.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Vilkas conceded. “But damned if I know why they’re going on their Proving so soon.”

Farkas looked to the sky. “I suppose we’ll soon find out.”


End file.
